Denise, April 2015
Where I lived when I was little
we all had stoops;
stone steps or benches of concrete and brick
affixed to the front of the building.
Gritty and dusty in the summer heat,
bleachers of the street arena
box seats to the daily drama of the west Bronx
Waiting for Good Humor,
watching for friends,
giggling over the boy
who delivered the groceries
listening to stories of the war and the depression
picking the scabs from skinned knees
and peeling our sunburns.
Our days unraveled from the skeins of our lives
as our mothers knitted and chatted
till 5:00 when the fathers came home.